


Days Like Years

by out_there



Category: West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-02
Updated: 2005-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:52:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's been a long day."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Like Years

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://meadowlion.livejournal.com/profile)[**meadowlion**](http://meadowlion.livejournal.com/) for betaing. It was vastly improved by her help.

I'm more than halfway through dictating the letter when I realise I haven't asked Donna if she's okay. Well, none of us are okay. Between a Republican acting as president and Zoey going missing, most of us are only holding it together through coffee and sheer determination. But still, I haven't asked her.

Leaning over my desk, I place one of my hands over hers, and she looks up at me sharply. "What?"

"Are you okay?"

"I… yeah, I'm okay." She looks up at me with wide, shadowed eyes, and I can see how frightened she is. Donna's one of the most capable women I know. She's not going to dissolve into a fit of tears, but she's frightened. The problem is that we all are, and I really don't have anything to reassure her with.

"Good." I pull my hand back, and she gives me a brief smile.

"You were saying?" She looks back down at the pad before her, pen in hand.

I've lost my train of thought. It was important, I'm sure but I have no idea what we were working on. "Read that last sentence back to me."

She twirls the pen between long, pale fingers and then drums it on the desk as she reads. Over the slow tapping, she recites, "Pursuant to our meetings, you will be required to liaise with the members in question. Please ensure all queries are addressed both in writing and…"

Donna's voice trails off, and I'm suddenly shaken by a hand on my shoulder.

"Hey!"

Opening my eyes, I try to say I'm awake, I'm annoyed and I don't appreciate being manhandled, but all that comes out is a murmured, "Awake. 'M awake..."

I rub my eyes and try to get my bearings. Looking around, I can see that I'm in the back of a cab, not sitting at my office, and Donna's nowhere to be seen. Which would make sense, since Donna had taken a different cab home.

The cabbie's forehead is as wrinkled as my suit and his ink-dark hair is cut short. It's longer in the I.D. photo at the front of the cab. His surname is something unpronounceable and possibly Russian, but I don't hear an accent. "Is this the place?"

I'm still blinking sleep out of my eyes as I look out the window and recognise familiar steps. "This is it. How much?"

The guy quotes twelve- or thirteen-something, so I hand over three fives and gather my coat and bag. Getting out of the cab, I nearly trip on the gutter and land face-first on the sidewalk.

Leo might have been right when he said we needed to sleep.

Well, his exact comment had been, "If Josh and Will aren't out of this building in the next ten minutes, I'll have agents escort them home. With undue force, if possible." Toby and CJ had pleaded that they lived too far away and both had comfortable couches, so Leo'd confined them to their offices to sleep.

The pair had been grounded like wayward teens. When Toby realised that, he looked as if he'd accidentally swallowed one of his cigars. I wish I'd caught that look on camera.

Yawning, I force myself to focus. The climb up the stairs is ridiculously taxing, so I lean my weight against the doorframe as I try to find my key. My pants pockets are empty. Well, not empty: there's a packet of gum, a pen, a napkin and the password to Donna's computer written on a Post-It -- I really have no way to explain that last one -- but no keys.

Searching through my coat pockets doesn't help either. There's a strong chance that I left them in my top drawer, in my desk, but if that's the case, I think it'll be easier to take a nap right here, on the stairs outside my building.

"You dropped these," some guy next to me says, pressing a bunch of keys into my hand. It takes a second to realise that they're mine.

"Thanks, man," I say, staring at the metal in my hand. I think I've forgotten what my front door key looks like. Donna's teased me about clearing out my key ring -- there's no earthly reason for anyone to have over a dozen keys -- but I've always been able to find my front door key. But tonight when the jagged teeth catch the lamplight, none of them look familiar.

I let my head drop forward against the door and my eyes close as I wonder if it's worth calling Donna to ask her which key it is.

Then fingers close over mine, and I realise that the key-guy is still standing there. "Want a hand?" he asks gently.

I make the supreme effort of turning my head, because you should try to make eye-contact when you explain to a total stranger that you're really not a moron. If you want to impress someone with the fact that you're a very powerful person, it helps if you can open your eyes. When I do, my first reaction is to scrunch them shut again, then open them very slowly. It doesn't make any difference.

Key-guy still looks like Sam, which wouldn't be a problem, except Sam is several states away. It's vicious and underhanded for my subconscious to play with me like this.

I stare at him, blinking, as he takes the keys out of my grip and easily finds the right one. The key turns smoothly in the lock while I'm wondering if this guy is really 5'2" and I'm hallucinating the resemblance, or if I fell asleep when I leant against the door and I'm dreaming the entire thing. It probably doesn't matter either way.

"Leo was right," I mutter under my breath. If I'm trying to work out whether I'm hallucinating or dreaming, I really need to sleep.

"About what?" The look-a-like guy follows me inside, placing my keys on the hall table.

"I need to sleep. I'm hallucinating or dreaming, and either way, you're not who I want you to be."

"Josh," he says, standing close and anchoring a warm hand against my shoulder. "It's me."

"No." I shake my head and barely stifle a yawn. "Sam's in California."

The Sam-a-like laughs softly and says, "No, I'm not. I travelled up here today."

I realise that I'm still shaking my head back and forth tiredly. It takes me a moment to stop. "The airports are closed."

"People can travel interstate without a plane. You do remember that, right?" Sam's wry sarcasm can't be faked. And it's something that never appears in my dreams.

I swallow, and drop my bag. "You drove?" I ask, as I throw my coat in the general direction of the coat rack.

"Actually, I took a train and then hired a car."

"Oh," I say, taking a good look at Sam. His clothes are rumpled and creased; his hair's unruly and sticking out over the edge of his collar; his very blue eyes are also bloodshot. He looks about half as tired as I feel. "It's been a long day."

"How long?"

"Long." I look at my watch and laugh mirthlessly. I shrug my jacket off and let it fall to the floor. "Over forty hours now."

"You should get some rest."

If I weren't so tired, I'd argue. Or ask more questions. Instead, I shrug and try not to think about how long -- and how bad -- this day has been. "Couldn't hurt."

"Go," Sam says, bobbing his chin towards my bedroom. "I've got a motel booked. Tomorrow--"

"Tomorrow could be worse than today." The words feel bleak, but they're true. Today has been a nightmare of things that haven't worked and things we don't know. If we still don't know, tomorrow will be worse. There are some answers that would make it unbearable. Zoey could be-- I ignore that thought and focus on Sam. "I might not get a chance to see you."

"I don't have any immediate plans. I'll be here for a while."

Sam doesn't smile. He lays a hand on my forearm, running his thumb over the rolled-up sleeve of my shirt. It takes me a moment to get it, but I'm not at my sharpest tonight. Sam's plan was to be here: he heard the news and came.

"Stay here tonight." The words are out of my mouth before I've even thought of the justifications or the ways I can rationalize later.

I don't care. It's so easy to step forward, to drop my head to his shoulder. He doesn't step away; his arms are loose around my back. Sam smells like cheap coffee and expensive aftershave as he drops a single, light kiss to the side of my neck.

I know the words I should be saying: can't, don't, shouldn't. But Sam isn't making false promises, and he isn't asking for answers I don't have. He heard the news and came. That's almost enough to make me forget what the news was.

We stand there for a while -- five minutes, ten, I'm not sure -- and it's warm and comforting in the way that simple human touch always is. I could fall asleep right here, but bed would be better.

I pull back and lead him through to the bedroom, where we kick off our shoes and crawl under the covers, too tired to talk. I lie on my side, facing my alarm, because it's only a matter of hours before today becomes tomorrow morning, and another long day starts.

Sam curls up behind me with one arm curled around my chest. It doesn't fix anything, but it makes me hope that tonight's sleep will be dreamless. Right now, that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback can be left here or on [Livejournal](http://community.livejournal.com/inthetallgrass/179627.html?mode=reply).


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